


there goes today

by SiriCerasi



Category: Arrow (TV 2012), DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Blood and Injury, F/M, Fix-It, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Leonard Snart Lives, POV Leonard Snart, Post-Season/Series 01, Whump, confused crooks and assassins aren't the safest people to be around, don't worry she still has her knives, hurt sara, it might have a plot eventually, len is understandably confused, so is Sara, the fix-it i did not intend to write
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-22
Updated: 2017-09-23
Packaged: 2018-10-09 09:51:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10409478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SiriCerasi/pseuds/SiriCerasi
Summary: at least his night is no longer boring.or, Sara tries to crash at one of Len's old safe-houses and finds a surprise





	1. starts with one

**Author's Note:**

> um I did not intend to write a fix-it but this wouldn't get out of my head so
> 
> Sara is pretty beat up so if you don't like reading about blood or dislocated shoulders here's your warning xD
> 
> [starts with one](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gqEFJEgGva4) (shiny toy guns)

_(i can't feel)  
_

**_\---_ **

Len is bored.

It's a nagging feeling that sits in his gut, heavy and uncomfortable, and _bored_ is probably not the right term for it but it's the closest thing he can think of. He's been _bored_ for months, ever since that insane British man abducted him and Mick; nothing has felt quite… _normal_ since that night. Granted, waking up halfway around the world probably had something to do with that, but still.

Len is bored.

He hasn't seen head or tail of Mick since then, either, which is disappointing. He's certainly not worried about the other man - Mick can take care of himself, and Len is actually more worried about the people he's probably incinerated on the way - but they'd finally started to work out a functioning partnership again, had even started expanding, and now-

Now, Len is bored and alone.

It smarts just a little that the Rogues haven't stopped by Central, not even once. He knows it's not unusual for them to stay out of town for months, but usually Len is _with_ them for that. He'd managed to get ahold of Lisa through an old message board he'd half-forgotten still existed, and she'd just said they were fine and not to worry and that he'd told her he'd be out of the loop for a while so why was he worrying in the first place?

Len certainly doesn't remember saying that, and he knows Lisa is probably just messing with him, because she's Lisa and that's what she does.

But still, _eight months_.

So now he's crashed ( _not_ moping) at one of his old safehouses, half-heartedly casing out new museum exhibits that could be interesting, but really, he can't do much on his own. Lisa hadn't said when they'd be back, nor where they even were, and until either she or Mick shows up he's well and truly stuck.

And so, so bored.

A noise gets his attention, a scuff of boots and creak of wood that have him instantly on alert. This safehouse is one of his more remote ones, an old run-down house at the edge of town with a huge overgrown yard that makes coming and going unnoticed quite easy. It also makes squatting quite easy, and Len sighs as he grabs his cold gun from where it rests beside him on his worn couch. He hopes it's one of the more timid ones; he really doesn't want to deal with a body tonight.

Whoever it is starts working at the lock, and Len is about to hope that simple deterrent will put them off when he hears it click. He doesn't bother getting up, just raises his gun to aim at the door as it opens, smirking at the sound of the weapon powering up. It's familiar and reassuring, washing away the tiny bit of anxiety trying to bleed through.

He can't see very clearly without his goggles, unfortunately, as his eyes have yet to adjust to the glare of even the low-power setting. But whoever it is is small, smaller than he expected, and he nearly groans. Kids are annoying as fuck, and tend to do stupid things to prove they're not scared, and he's really not in the mood to deal with some brat.

"Whoever you are, you clearly have the wrong address," he drawls. The figure freezes, a dark silhouette against the dim twilight sky. "Today's your lucky day, though. I really don't feel like dealing with a body tonight, alive or dead, so why don't you just be on your merry way and we'll call it a night."

He really should just shoot them, he thinks absently, while the other person just stands there. Now he'll have to scrub this place. But it's not like he doesn't have other safe houses, and this one is getting pretty old and run down…

The other person hasn't moved, he realizes, and he gets to his feet with a growl. Before he can say anything, though, he hears a very quiet, "Len?" and he freezes. The figure stumbles forward a few steps, into the light, bloody and pale and shell-shocked, staring. Len stares right back, but he doesn't know this woman, despite her seeming to know _him_. His finger hovers on the trigger, a tense energy flooding the room, but before he decides whether to shoot her or not, she collapses.

Well, at least his night is no longer boring.

**_\---_ **

Collapsed, he quickly realizes, is not the same thing as passed out. He learns this when he kneels down beside the woman and instantly finds a knife at his throat, her body twisted at a strange angle to glare up at him. Her eyes are wild, face scratched and bruised, hair a tangled, bloody mess. He can't tell how much of the blood is hers, but from how pale she looks, he's guessing quite a lot.

The arm holding the knife is shaking, enough that he's worried she'll accidentally slit his throat. As he slowly looks down he realizes why the angle looks so strange; she'd fallen onto her left side, right arm dangling across her, but it's her left arm she's threatening him with, stretched up awkwardly from where it's half-crushed against the floor. She'd tried to roll onto her back to do so, but Len's leg had been in the way, so she'd only managed to get halfway there. She's cradling her right arm against her, although it looks… odd. Clearly injured.

Len sighs.

"Can you please put the knife down before you accidentally slit my throat?" he drawls, raising an eyebrow. "If I was gonna kill you I'd've done it already."

"Who says it'd be an accident?" she growls, but he can hear the strain in it.

He tells himself that's why he says, "You called me Len."

Something flickers on her face, something soft and vulnerable and in far greater pain than whatever these injuries have caused. She lowers the knife, rolling away from him and back on her side. Len blinks, a little stunned. She has her back to him. She's not even _looking_ at him.

He takes the chance to look her over. She's wearing black pants and boots, and a shirt that might've been blue at some point but is now just stained dark with blood and dirt. There are a few cuts on the parts of her he can see, but nothing that looks life-threatening - not that he should care. Why should he care?

"Most 'f it's not mine," she slurs, and he wonders if she reads minds. Meta-humans are a thing now, so it's possible.

She moves again, curling her left arm under her to try to push herself up, hissing in pain. For some reason, some _ridiculously annoying_ reason, the sound triggers something inside him, and he finds himself reaching for her. When he touches her right arm, though, she actually yelps in pain, her other arm giving out again so she crashes back down to the floor, breathing in short, hard gasps that make his own lungs ache.

"Shit," he breathes, not quite sure what else to say. Or do. Or why there's a bleeding woman on the floor of his goddamn safehouse.

"'s dislocated." That voice again, even harsher with pain now. Len looks at her right arm more closely and realizes that's why it looks so odd. And very, very painful, he knows from experience.

"Huh." Bleeding woman with a dislocated shoulder on his floor. At least he's not bored. "You want me to reset it?"

There's a choked sound he thinks might be a laugh, then a short, "Please."

Still not quite sure why he's doing this, Len very carefully touches her shoulder, feeling for the location of the bone. He tries to ignore the little hisses of pain she clearly doesn't want him to hear, not sure _why_ they tug at him so much.

"Alright, roll onto your back." She does, slowly, stretching her legs out as she does. He catches her waist to ease her down, but she still flinches, breathing fast and shallow, eyes squeezed tightly shut. Len takes her right hand, carefully straightening her arm out, and warns, "This is going to hurt."

"No _shit_."

Len snorts, smirking a little, but any amusement fades as he slowly moves her arm away from her body. When he gets close to 90 degrees she arches back, biting back a cry, and snarls, " _Fuck,_ you need to hold me still."

It's close enough to a plea that Len's stomach twists uncomfortably, but he obeys with a muttered, "Yes, ma'am." Pressing down on her shoulder makes her go several shades paler, teeth clenched audibly, fingers of her free hand balled up so tightly he sees a trickle of blood. Granted, it hardly compares to the rest of what she's covered with, but…

A whimper drags him back, and he shakes his head sharply. Slow will do nothing for her now; he pulls firmly on her arm, rotating it up until he's pretty sure the noises she's making are going to kill him and _-pop-_

Her head hits the ground with an audible _thunk_ , entire body shuddering with relief. "I'm going to pass out now," she announces.

"You're _welcome_ ," Leonard states to the now silent room.

**_\---_ **

_it's all in your mind, anyway_


	2. (it slowly fades)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Did you really have to get in the way of_ all _their blood spatter?"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: blood. lots of blood. and lots of swearing?
> 
> er, I intended for this section to have plot, but instead my brain was just really excited to hurt Sara some more

_(i can't heal)_

**_\---_**

He's lost his mind.

It's the only possible explanation. There's no logical reason for him to still be here, with this woman, let alone for him to have carried her to the couch. Where she's still lying, passed out and _bleeding_. On his couch.

Lost his damn mind.

Len groans, rubs his face and winces at the sticky feeling, remembering belatedly that they're covered in blood. Because of course they are, because there's a stranger _bleeding on his goddamn couch_.

At least she hadn't pulled a knife on him this time, he thinks sourly. He'd taken three off her before covering her with a blanket (to get the blood out of sight, _not_ because she'd been shivering), and he has no doubt there are more weapons he hadn't caught. Whoever this woman is, she's clearly very dangerous. She'd said most of the blood wasn't hers, and he actually believes her now; aside from her shoulder and some superficial cuts and bruises, she doesn't seem too beat up. At least nowhere visible, and he's definitely not bored enough to try to even take her boots off.

So, dangerous, and apparently knows him by name. Which is a little worrying, but also… interesting.

Lost. His. Mind.

He at least has the presence of mind to check if his new guest had brought anyone along with her. It's fully dark now, sky clear and cold and star-filled this far from the city. The overgrown grass rustles at the slightest breeze, crawling with eerie shadows cast from the light shining through the windows onto scraggly bushes and twisted trees. Len can't help shivering a little; this place is downright creepy at night, and he does his best never to stay here alone. It's much harder to secure, especially with just one person, but it's also his most obscure safehouse. After the month it took him to get back to Central, tails harder to shake than any he's ever had, he'd decided the need to disappear could override the creep factor this time.

Hence, having a stranger crash his hideout is _annoying_ , to say the least. He should really just kill her to get rid of the problem, but who knows who might come after her (that's the only reason she's still alive, he tells himself. It has nothing to do with the sick feeling he gets when he thinks of shooting her.)

When he's satisfied she hadn't been followed, he returns to find her still passed out on the couch. And still bleeding.

Len sighs.

He's still deliberating on what to do with her when she groans, eyelids fluttering open as she shifts. "Ow."

"You're bleeding on my couch," Len greets. She goes absolutely rigid, stops even breathing for a moment. Her head turns toward him slowly, eyes wide and wild. She slowly exhales, the tension in her body going with it, and looks back toward the ceiling.

"Right. Still hallucinating. Got it."

Len blinks. Of all the things she could've said, that's… not what he'd expected. "Not sure if I should be flattered or insulted," he drawls. He unholsters his gun. She closes her eyes.

He decides right then he will _never understand this woman_.

He stalks into the small bedroom attached to the main room by a short hallway, opening the door with more force than is probably necessary. Something about the way she so casually disregards him is _infuriating_. And now that he's had a chance to think about it, she looks familiar. He's certain he's met her before, but he can't place it, and Len has an eidetic memory, so that shouldn't be _possible_.

And yet, there she is.

He should _really_ kill her.

Instead he finds himself with some of Lisa's old clothes and a first-aid kit, sitting on the coffee table not two feet from the couch.

Lost his fucking _mind_.

"You weren't followed, by the way," is the first thing his useless brain says. "I checked. You're welcome."

She'd hardly even acknowledged his presence, just the smallest tensing of muscles that lets him know she's still awake. "Hmm," she tries. She sounds hoarse. He is not getting her water. "Hard t'be followed by dead guys," she eventually manages, and then makes a noise that might be a laugh the moment she hears her own words.

Then she coughs, and apparently her ribs are at least bruised, because she makes a terrible sound when she does. She wraps her arms across her body, tries to curl onto her side. But the only way there's room has her shifting onto her bad shoulder and the noise she makes is even worse and Len finds himself kneeling at her side, a hand on her uninjured shoulder trying to hold her steady. "Shit," he mutters. "Stay still, alright?"

In answer she coughs again, and he curses. "Stay. Still," he orders again, before jumping up to grab her water. And a towel, because he can only tolerate talking to someone with dried blood all over their face for so long.  

He returns to her struggling to sit up, propped on her good arm, and nearly dumps the water on her head. "What did I _say_?" he growls kneeling down to place the cup on the coffee table and a hand on her upper back.

"Can't drink like that," she answer shortly. She coughs again, free hand going to her mouth, and Len's not sure if it's the blood that appears on her hand or the noise she makes at moving her bad shoulder _again_ that makes him feel sick. He grabs for something to put under her head - his parka, which she's going to bleed on, and she's _absolutely_ buying him a new one. If she lives.

He suddenly, incomprehensibly feels guilty - he hadn't checked her for injuries before moving her, and he could've made this so much worse, and-

What the fuck does he _care_?

"For fuck's sake, stop _moving_ ," he hisses through clenched teeth. She lowers her hand with a grimace. "Is that yours?" He gestures at the smeared blood on her palm.

"Don't think so." She presses her hand against her side, wincing. "Just bruised. Maybe fractured."

Len grabs her wrist before she can move it anymore, growls, "If you don't stop moving this arm I will bind it to your chest." She snorts, which makes her cough, which makes her curl up in pain, and Len considers just tying her entire body down so she'll stop _moving_. He eases her a little more upright with his free hand, waiting for the coughing spasm to subside before lowering her back down and grabbing the cup of water.

"Here. Drink this before you die." Her lips twitch wearily, and Len decides he should maybe just stay silent until she's not on the edge of convulsing at everything he says.

The water seems to help, though. It's a few minutes before her breathing settles back to some semblance of normal, and Len finally releases her wrist. "Can I?" he asks, gesturing toward her ribs. She hums what he thinks is assent, eyes closed now. Len carefully runs his hand along her side once before fingering the hem of her shirt, wincing as dried blood peels off with it.

"Jus' tear it," she mumbles. He can feel her body rising too sharply with each inhale, hitched breaths that give away her pain. He should really find her some painkillers, or at least get her a beer.

"If you say so," is all he says. Then grabs one of the knives he'd pulled off her from where he'd stashed it in his jacket, because tearing would involve application of force, which would involve her making more noises of pain that he absolutely cannot stand to hear again. He slits the material easily, finds her peering at his hand with exasperation.

"Ser'sly?" she slurs. "Ugh, you're hopeless."

"That's what I keep saying. Now stay still." He gently peels back the material, so stiff with dried blood he can no longer tell what color it was. "How many guys bled on you, anyway?"

"D'no." She raises her good hand to her face, rubbing her eyes. "Ten? Lost count."

There are several long gashes running along her side. They're not too deep, but the fabric of the shirt is now firmly embedded in them. "Did you really have to get in the way of _all_ their blood spatter?" he asks as he cuts the material away carefully around the cuts. Right now he just wants to make sure her ribs are in place.

"Only seemed polite." She shifts a little as he finishes removing what he can of her shirt, the only sign of pain she gives. She's thankfully wearing a sports bra underneath, although she's so coated in blood and dirt and bruises he's not sure it makes much difference. Probably the difference between her knifing him or not, though.

With her stomach bare her panting is much more obvious, and again it makes him unduly upset to witness. Len frowns, rocking back on his heels a little. "Painkillers?" he asks. She shakes her head once, sharply.

"'m fine." Len snorts at that, shrugging.

"Your call."

He places his palm as gently as he can at the base of her ribcage, carefully probing until he's found the offending bone. "Just one," he tells her, fingers running over the swelling. "Doesn't feel out of place. Can't tell if it's bruised or fractured."

"Doesn't matter," she says shortly. She's trying to hide it, but her entire body has started to tremble a little.

Len sighs. "Will you at least take some aspirin?"

"'s bad for blood clotting."

"Thought the blood wasn't yours."

She groans, hand pressed back over her eyes. "Fuck off."

"You're on _my_ couch," he retorts, the reality of the situation hitting him again. "You're _bleeding_ on my couch."

He stands, nearly tripping over the coffee table as he steps back, steps _away_ from whatever the hell this is. He sees her tense up again and is suddenly irate that he _cares_ , crosses his arms and snarls, "Who _are_ you?"

She's pressed herself up on her good arm, grimacing as she slowly swings her legs off the couch. "Not your concern," she answers tersely.

"It is my concern when you know who I am, where my safehouse is, and seem determined to bleed out on my floor." She tries to glare at him, but her eyes don't focus quite right, and even as her feet hit the ground she leans back into the couch cushions. Effectively getting blood on _all_ of them. "Fine, if you can get to the door by yourself, you're welcome to leave."

He's pretty sure she actually hisses at that, tucks her bad arm across her stomach and pushes herself up with her good hand-

Only to promptly collapse. Again. Leaving Len to catch her, _again_.

And again, he does the one thing he absolutely should not do, and lowers her back onto his couch.

Lost. His. Mind.

**_\---_**

_make me feel this way_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apparently when I want to take a break from writing plot or angst I just torture Sara idk I'm sorry Sara


	3. now there's two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Len likes to think that he is, in fact, smarter than small rodents._

_(i can't see)_

**_\---_ **

Len likes to think that he is, in fact, smarter than small rodents. But he apparently has yet to learn that getting shocked means you shouldn't do the same thing again, that collapsed does not mean unconscious and that this woman is dangerously good with her hands.

Which is how he once again finds himself at knifepoint. It's usually far less intimidating than gunpoint, but definitely not with this one. He's not even sure where she'd pulled it from, unless-

Oh, _no_.

She's giving him this satisfied little smirk that he wants to wipe off her face, in some fashion or another. "I wanted it back," she states smugly. "I can't believe you actually fell for that twice in the space of an hour, Snart."

He narrows his eyes, opens his mouth to say something about how this is her fault, and maybe she's a meta or something because he shouldn't let his guard down around her as easily as he seems to and she's using it against him which is playing _dirty_ and -

He snaps his mouth shut and storms off. If she can turn her back on his gun, he can absolutely do it to her and her stupid little knife and he absolutely will be a petulant ass about it because why the hell not.

Lisa would be _so_ proud.

He slams a few drawers and cabinets in the kitchen, just for good measure.

She has her eyes closed when he stalks back to the living room, chest rising and falling a little too rapidly.

"If you want to stay, I expect some answers."

She cracks her eyes open, looking far too amused and a little too sad. "First I wasn't allowed to go, now I can't stay? You sure know how to make a girl feel wanted."

There's a little pull in his chest that is suddenly overwhelming, aches so badly he nearly gasps. "Stop… _doing_ that," he snarls. She looked genuinely confused.

"What, talking? Kind of hard to communicate without it."

"No, you-" He gestures wildly before crossing his arms tightly, glaring, as though somehow that will help. "Nevermind," he mutters.

She sits slowly, doing her best to cover her wince as she does. Doesn't quite conceal the way her breath catches. Len concentrates very hard on not reaching out to help her, grits his teeth and keeps his arms tightly folded. "Well?" he demands.

She gives him an amused look. "So I'm supposed to… leave and stay, while giving you answers without talking." He can't tell all that well under the dirt and blood and bruises but he's pretty sure she's shock white, can see her wavering where she sits, and yet somehow she still manages to dominate the room. It's infuriating. It's annoyingly seductive.

She could be a siren meta, he decides. Got blasted while watching The Little Mermaid or something.

"Answers or get out," he grates. Regrets it immediately at the sad look on her face, the faint smile she gives him as she pushes to her feet.

"It was… It was good to see you, crook." He pretends he doesn't hear her voice crack, or see the way her eyes glisten dark and blue, one of them now swollen nearly shut. Pretends he doesn't hear the hitch in her breathing or see the slight flinches of pain as she slowly makes her way for the door.

Pretends he at least _considers_ shooting her in the back, instead of just letting her walk out the damn door.

**_\---_ **

It takes him about ten minutes to regret his decision to let her leave enough that he growls, grabs his parka and gun and storms from the house. He's not entirely sure what he plans to do, not sure whether he's angrier at the danger he'd just let go or that he'd let her leave so injured.

Which only makes him angrier, stomping through the overgrown grass, following the trail of scuff marks and blood in the dirt road. Sloppy, he thinks absently. She'd been anything but before reaching the safehouse, which either means she's setting a trap or she's too injured to care, and he's not sure which one bothers him more.

He'd honestly expected her to get a lot farther than she did; he finds her not half a mile away, at the base of a tree, huddled in the sad remains of her shirt. She whirls when she hears him, knife in her hand, unable to suppress the small hiss of pain that comes from twisting her ribs.

"What the fuck," she bites, voice shaking. "You can't possibly still own this land, so fuck off."

"Actually, all the way up to the main road," he drawls, and she… wilts. The next breath is close enough to a sob that every part of him begins to ache, and when she slowly starts dragging herself to her feet he can't help stepping forward.

"I'm going," she chokes, misinterpreting his movement. "Just… I'm going. All the way to the main road."

Len swears, closing the distance between them and wrapping an arm around her waist just as she falls against the trunk. "What're you _doing_?" Her voice shakes, her entire body with it, and the guilt is hot and gnawing in his stomach.

"It'll look bad if you die on my property," he says mildly, finds himself flat on his back the next instant with her standing over him, one hand still on the tree to steady herself. Her eyes blaze, feral and blood-streaked, and Len finds he's a little scared.

"Fuck you," she snarls. She stumbles back, leaning into the tree, dead white now. That had taken the last of her energy, Len thinks as he slowly pushes back to his feet, hands held out appeasingly.

"I'm sorry," he says, as soothingly as he can. "I was an asshole. Please come back inside so you don't die out here."

She shakes her head, white enough that he's afraid she's going to pass out again. "You're not him," she whispers. "You're not…" He ignores that, for now, and focuses on getting closer without her stabbing him.

"Okay," he soothes. "Just come inside." He manages to get an arm around her waist before she collapses, half-drags her back to the house. She barely makes it to the couch, gray and shaking, and the guilt is nauseating now.

He refills her glass of water before grabbing the blanket where it'd fallen to the floor. Her eyes snap open when he places it over her, blue standing out even more starkly against her ashen skin.

"Rest," he says shortly. He doesn't want to think about guilt or how _off_ everything is or blue eyes that could drown him. Her eyelids flutter, even as she shivers and curls in on herself a little. Len casts around for another blanket, eventually pulling one from the closet to tuck over her wordlessly.

Tomorrow. He'll deal with her tomorrow.

When he starts to walk away he hears a choked, "Don’t…" Turns back to see her eyes wide open, face dead white. How she's not passed out is beyond him. She's gripping a knife in one hand, he realizes, but it's shaking so badly he doubts she could stab a pillow.

He thinks of her still awake out there, lying against the tree, waiting… for what? Morning? Her wounds to heal? She'd passed out easily enough before-

When _he'd_ been there.

Len has been on his own enough to know the terror she's feeling, being alone and defenseless. He slowly takes a few steps toward her, settles in the chair beside the couch and rests the cold gun on the table.

"It's alright," he says quietly, sees her eyelids already fluttering. "You're safe. Go ahead and rest."

He is so screwed.

**_\---_ **

_i've never felt this way  
_ _(i can't feel anything anyway)_


	4. (slowly fades away)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"If you're going to bleed all over my safehouse, can I at least know your name?"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic can be considered the unofficial fix for Child, Be Still for those who were wondering ;) It's not officially in that verse yet mainly because CBS isn't finished, so I may need to tweak this one. But this does reference it and is where I go to write when canon hurts too much xD

_(i can't feel anything anyway)_

**_\---_ **

She sleeps for almost an entire day.

Len... is past trying to figure out all the things that could possibly mean.

He spends the day trying and failing to leave. For more reasons than he has fingers, he needs to leave. But every time he gets to the door he thinks of the look on her face last night, right before she'd fallen asleep, and he just... can't.

No one has ever looked at him like that before.

Definitely not anyone covered in the blood of so many people, and that should _not_ be so attractive.

He's regretting not getting her to at least wash her damn face off before passing out, but he hadn't expected her to sleep quite so _long_. Hadn't really been thinking about anything but getting her to stop making terrible noises of pain, getting her safely back inside, getting annoyingly distracted by eyes that somehow seem to see right through every defense he's built up over a lifetime. And while he's long since given up on salvaging his couch, he still has to see her prone and looking like a murder victim in the middle of his safehouse.

He imagines Lisa walking in on this and chokes on his beer.

It also makes it difficult to get an actual look at her face, to place that nagging thread pulling in his mind that he knows her, somehow. It's infuriating. As far as he can tell, she'd brought nothing with her, and as out of it as she seems, he doesn't even entertain the idea of trying to search her. That would most definitely end badly for him.

So he's stuck trying to ignore the bloody woman asleep on his couch, because this is apparently his life now.

He's halfway through a book he'd been half-focused on for hours when she finally stirs. He hears a sharp intake of breath before she stills completely, then after a moment slowly pushes herself upright. She's not looking at him, seems to be making a pointed effort _not_ to look at him, but Len has been waiting on her for twenty-odd hours now. He can wait another minute.

When she finally does turn to let her legs dangle over the edge of the cushion, Len greets, "You ruined my couch."

She blinks, looking down. "Shit. Sorry." She rubs at her face with her hands - well, tries to, hissing in pain when she moves her injured arm. "How long was I out?"

"Not quite an entire day," he drawls. She freezes for a moment, good hand on her forehead, before slowly lowering it. It comes away reddish brown and sticky.

"Here," Len says casually, before he can think too hard. He gestures at the pile of clothes he'd brought out earlier. "Don't get any ideas, they were already lying around, they're-"

"Lisa's," she murmurs. It's like ice water in his veins and he stiffens, hand suddenly twitching for his gun. The woman winces, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Sorry. I shouldn't've-"

"Who are you?" His voice is hard, _cold_ , and there's a flash of sadness on her face that's... unexpected. "How do you know that name?"

Len didn't get this far in life without a great deal of flexibility - in his rules, his morals, his actions, his heart - and contrary to popular belief, he's actually quite good at going with the flow. But Lisa - Lisa is the one thing he doesn't waver on. He may play games with his own life, with the lives of just about everyone on the planet, but never Lisa's.

And this woman is dangerous, he can feel it in his bones. He'd been intrigued, a little drawn to the feral wildness she wears like armor, but that all shuts down the moment she says Lisa's name.

She doesn't answer, just chews her lip for a moment, and Len reaches for the cold gun. And she _smirks_ at that, shaking her head, says drily, "I wish you'd stop pointing that thing at me." Len blinks, but doesn't lower his arm, and she sighs. "Look, I'm not here to hurt you."

"Why are you here?" There are a million questions whirling in his brain, an uncomfortable pressure building in his chest.

The woman looks away, glancing toward the door, mutters, "I didn't expect _you_ to be." Len has no idea how to take that. Before he can say anything else, she continues, "Can we do this after I clean up? I'm..." She glances down at herself, blood and dirt and half-scabbed wounds, and spreads her hands. "Please?"

No, he's not going to fall for that. He's not going to let her- "Fine."

Or that.

Her lips twitch, an exhausted smile that looks a little horrific on her bloody face. It'll be easier to have this conversation if she doesn't look like a zombie, he supposes. And she is still bleeding on his couch.

"Shower's there," he states, pointing to the small bathroom across the room. "First aid under the counter." She nods, absently rubbing at her recently dislocated shoulder with a wince. Then she stretches, testing out her other limbs, and seems to find them acceptably functional when she stands.

She's halfway to the bathroom when Len suddenly calls out, "Hey." She freezes, slowly turning back. "If you're going to bleed all over my safehouse, can I at least know your name?"

Emotions flick across her face, exhaustion making them more apparent. She's quiet for a long moment, and he thinks maybe she won't answer when she says quietly, "Sara."

**_\---_ **

"You owe me a new couch," he announces when she - _Sara -_ returns, hair dripping.

She just smirks. "You stole that one."

"I did n-" Len scowls. "Okay, I did, but that's not the point."

She's close enough now that he can really see her face, and now that she's no longer covered in blood, the nagging familiarity blooms tenfold. "Have we met?" he asks before he can think. Her smirk fades.

"That's... a complicated question."

"How's that?" She looks away, crossing her arms tightly across her chest, but before she can avoid answering it suddenly, _finally_ clicks. "The rooftop. You were on that rooftop with the certifiable British guy."

Her gaze snaps back to him, something so _hopeful_ there it makes him uncomfortable. "You remember?" It's strained, and Len doesn't think it's from pain, although she's favoring her entire right side at this point. He wishes she'd sit down; he doesn't want to have her passed out on his floor _again_.

He points at the couch, orders, "Sit." She doesn't move, just stands there swaying, hugging herself awkwardly with her injured arm not quite moving the way it should. Len bites back a groan. "I'm not picking you up off the floor if you pass out again," he tells her. Sara.

That, somehow, makes it _worse,_ a horribly haunted look on her face now. But she does shuffle toward the couch and sink down stiffly. Avoiding the worst of the blood, he notes with relief, running a critical eye over her various visible wounds. She does, at least, know her first aid well enough to not bleed all over Lisa's clothing. His sister would never forgive either of them if her clothes were ruined.

She's still staring at him with that expression that's somehow shuttered and far too open all at once, that cuts right through him and lets him see more of her than he has any right to. Len shifts uncomfortably, takes a deep breath and forces his brain to focus. The roof. Start at the beginning.

"So," he drawls. “The rooftop.” Emotion flickers across her face, and he sees her take a slow breath, jaw clenching. “You were there.” It’s not really a question; she nods anyway. “So where did you end up after English did his… zappy thing?”

She blinks, raising an eyebrow. “’Zappy thing’?” He pretends not to hear her voice crack.

"The way he got us all on the rooftop to begin with. I figured he zapped me to the other side of the world the same way."

"Other side of the world?"

"Tibet, to be exact." Her face does something funny at that. "Awfully rude of him not to put us back where we came from."

Sara frowns, chewing her lip. It's adorable.

He did not just think that.

"That was how long ago?"

Len gives her a look. "You were there."

"Just... humor me. Please." Something about the way she says 'please' makes his stomach twist; pleading seems... wrong on her.

"Eight months," he finally answers. "Give or take."

"And you woke up the day after the roof?"

"As far as I can tell. I was a little preoccupied, and no one spoke English." She tilts her head expectantly, and he sighs. "Picked up some tails. Probably thought I was an easy mark. Looked like some serious business, though, dressed in black with hoods and masks and everything." Her eyes widen a little at that, but before he can ask anything, she rushes on.

"And you came straight here?"

Len frowns. Narrows his eyes, and answers slowly, "Yes. Took my time, to make sure I shook the tails, couple weeks."

"And you've been here ever since. Eight months."

"...yes?"

"That's... not like you."

Len blinks. She... has a point. He tries very hard not to think about how impossible it'd been to leave earlier today.

This is getting too weird for him. He wasn't _that_ bored.

He takes a long swallow of beer, eyeing her over the edge of the bottle. Her eyes are unfocused, a tiny frown creased on her forehead, mouth twisted in thought. The word 'adorable' floats around his brain again, along with a sudden desire to tuck the dripping strands of hair back from her face, to make the lines of worry on her face disappear, and decides maybe he's had enough alcohol for the night.

"Everything is... wrong," she finally says, foot tapping a little. "Some things more than others. Most things just seem a little off, but some things..." She fades. Len has no _clue_ what she's talking about.

"It's how _this_ happened," she says, gesturing toward her shoulder with disgust. "Reached out to some old acquaintances, trying to figure out what the hell is going on, only it turns out we're not acquaintances anymore, and they want to kill me." She rubs her eyes wearily, and he notices for the first time the bags under them, beyond the bruises, despite a day of sleep. "Sorry. I know this sounds crazy, and I wish I could explain it better."

Len frowns, thinking back over the past eight months, over how _off_ everything has seemed. "Maybe not as crazy as you think," he says slowly, and there's that goddamn hope on her face again. "How did you know about this place?"

"Would you believe you told me?"

"No."

She snorts softly, shaking her head, swiping at her eyes. "Then you come up with a good story. I don't have the energy to do it right now."

Len stares at her for moment. "Alright, why'd you say you didn't think I'd be here?"

"Because you're dead."

Len blinks.

Sara smiles, a twisted stretch of lips, and she's halfway to the door before Len even realizes she'd moved.

**_\---_ **

She doesn't go far, nor does she try to hide; Len is entirely certain he'd never find her if she didn't want to be found. She's on the roof, of all places - how she'd climbed up with an injured arm is beyond him - laying on her back, staring up at the sky. Len only spots her after he's walked out a dozen paces into the yard, silhouetted against the sky when he turns back toward the house.

He goes back inside, up into the attic and out the tiny hatch onto the roof. The handle is still coated in dust, no footprints scuffed on the floor, so she'd clearly found some other way up.

"There a reason you're on the roof?" he asks casually, inching along the paneling to where she's still laying on her back, good arm curled under her head.

She doesn't look at him, just continues staring up. "Did you know you can't actually see the stars when you're travelling through time?" she asks, as though it's the most mundane thing in the world.

"You know, I hadn't really given it much thought." She snorts softly as he shifts to sit beside her, trying not to think about all the different ways he could fall. "How did you even get up here?"

"Carefully." He almost groans, settles for rolling his eyes.

"So... time travel." She hums assent, not offering anything else. "Everything that British bastard said was true?"

She hums again. "Well, not all of it. Most of it."

"And I'm..."

"Yes." She's trying very hard to hide it, but there's a great deal of pain behind that single word.

Len studies her for a moment, pale in the moonlight, bruises standing out more starkly here. "And what were we?" he asks, not entirely sure why. Not sure he wants to know.

She finally looks at him, eyes glittering. "I have no idea," she murmurs, and somehow, that's the only answer he'd've believed.

He carefully shifts to lay down beside her, looking up at the sky. "Well, I told you about this place, so it can't be all bad."

"Mainly just the dying part, yeah."

He has a sudden urge to apologize, which is ridiculous for so many reasons. Instead, he says slowly, "How long were we... gone? How does that work, anyway? Just come back to the moment we left, or...?"

She tenses at that, although Len has absolutely no idea what he'd said wrong. She takes a slow breath, answers, "No. We - well, most of the team - were on the Waverider for about five months. Left in January, came back in May."

"Most of the team?"

"Me and a couple others got stranded for two years in 1958." She says it so casually, he... believes her? "And Mick..." She fades, shakes her head sharply.

"Is Mick okay?" Len demands.

She gives him a look he can't read, somewhere between amused and sad. "Yeah, he's fine. He's here on shore leave too, actually. Half the team is. Shit, I should've told you that already. Although..."

"Although hearing from a dead guy might be confusing?"

Sara sighs. "I really hate when this time crap gets so weird," she mutters, pressing her hands to her face. "If I could just reach Gideon..."

"Gideon?"

"AI on the ship. She sort of... runs it, I guess. Lost my comm days ago. Can't reach her on a normal cell while she's in the temporal zone." She lets out a slow breath, shakes her head again. "I can't think about this any more tonight." Her forehead is creased, eyes pinched, fingers to her temples for a moment.

Len sighs. "You know you haven't eaten since you got here," he points out. It earns him a look that's definitely amused, her eyes softer around the edges, a small smile on her lips.

"You just can't help yourself." Her smile fades rapidly and she looks away, eyes glittering suspiciously. She swallows hard, tucks her arms across her stomach as though in pain. Len finds himself reaching out - to do _what_ he has no fucking idea. But she flinches away, whispers, " _Don't_." Scrubs angrily at her face, hissing at she hits cuts and bruises. She starts to move toward the edge, mutters, "I need to..." Len curls his fingers into a fist to keep from reaching for her again. "Please don't follow me."

He doesn't even see how she gets down; one moment she's there, and the next she's just gone.

**_\---_ **

_distorted light moves in_  
_(or am i mistaken?)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor confused Len *pats Len on the head*

**Author's Note:**

> idk where this came from, it has a vague and nebulous plot and random bits and pieces that I may or may not get around to posting so... don't expect too much from it ;P


End file.
